


New York 10:04 PM

by 3311



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Character Study, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 09:25:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13610394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3311/pseuds/3311
Summary: Inspired by the “Steve’s day off” deleted avengers scene. It focuses on Steve’s feelings of isolation and loss and his memories regarding Bucky. Steve Centric. Pre ca:tws.





	New York 10:04 PM

**[9:00 AM]**

He checks his watch for the third time in the last five minutes, 9:00 AM. When he checks again it’s only 1 minute past. He tries not to fidget but he rubs his thumb on the palm of his hand. The subway car is stuffy and uncomfortably hot from the morning rush, but the weight of his jacket on his shoulders comforts him so he doesn’t take it off. When he looks out the window his reflection looks back at him and he almost wants to ask “Are you all right? Are you lost?”

This is not a feeling he’s used too, this odd anxiety that seems to always try to creep on him since he was taken out of the ice, like a big spider you don’t notice on you until you feel a tingle on your arm. He ignores it, tries to relax.

Relaxing is yet another thing he’s not particularly familiar with, but that’s what days off are for, or that’s what he’s been led to believe. The one day he can spend time away from Captain America, away from the expectations to perform a trick at every turn, from the eyes that follow him every second. But at least that’s something he’s used to -his one beacon of familiarity in this new world- the knowledge that he’s first and foremost seen as the soldier or, in some cases, the guinea pig. Either is an improvement of what he was seen as before Captain America came along but neither is Steve Rogers.

He’s proud of the Captain, of the good he can do for others. He was given what he had always wanted, but he knows his very Irish mother would have warned him; when you are offered such a prize there are always hidden strings, the spider waiting at the center ready to snare something you will agonize about losing until the day you die and maybe even after that. What Steve had lost had been half his soul and for all the good Captain America has done, he knows he would take his broken-down body back if he could have his soul whole.

Even now, if he closes his eyes and concentrates, he can remember exactly how his body felt before. The first enemy he ever knew, always pushing him back, trying to keep him down.  

His mother was his very first ally, always helping him fight back. Always trying to give him one more week, one more month, but never at the cost of his own wings. Since he was very young she had made him aware of his limitations, not so he would be afraid, but so he would always be able to make a choice.

By 12 thinking about death was like looking down into the bottom of a crystal clear lake, he knew with cold simplicity exactly what could mean the death of him, and approximately how much it would hurt. It was so clear the depth of it was deceiving and it scared him sometimes, but his mother had given him all he needed to craft steadfast confidence in his own strength even if, and especially when, his body fell short of it.

His body always fell short of it.

Sometimes his stomach burns so much Steve half expects to burst into flames. His heart is always uncomfortable and painful, like it’s something alive that’s crawled inside him by mistake. It flaps blind and terrified, getting impaled in his ribs as it desperately tries to escape. His lungs tighten cruelly; he imagines them like old pieces of leather, cracked and dry. Useless.

Scoliosis crooks his back a bit like a snake, it only hurts if he strains it, and his congested, run-down respiratory system makes sure that point never comes. But as a child Steve almost resents it the most. He could hide his leathery lungs or his dying heart from the other children, at least enough to have a friend for one evening, but not his crooked frame. It’s the first thing doctors raise their eyebrows at when he walks in; everywhere else it makes him both, painfully noticeable and instantly disposable. He’s only one more grimy reality of the decade, another stone dragging people down to the bottom of the icy lake.

When, like so many during the depression and really luckier than most, his mother and him land in their shabby one room apartment, it’s not different in his new school. He’s seen only to be discarded, until he gets into a fight, after which he’s actively mocked.

His lungs - probably thinking the enemy of your enemy is your friend-  swiftly betray him, closing before he can land even one good punch, he gasps for air like a dying goldfish and doesn’t even feel the sting from his brand new black eye.

His mother arrives at the school still wearing her nurse uniform, her hair coming undone. Steve knows she has ran all the way here, afraid she’s not going to make it on time to say goodbye to him. They walk home in silence, taking many pauses so Steve can catch his breath. She doesn’t say a word, not even to scold him, because she knows he wouldn’t be able to talk to her yet.

“Are you angry?” he asks sheepishly as soon as he can talk without every word coming with a small gasp.

His mother turns to him. She holds him by his shoulders, kindly but firmly, and levels her gaze with his.

“That could have been it, Steve” She says, her eyes steady and serious “Is that really how you would have wanted it to be? A petty school fight?”  

“It wasn’t petty! They were calling Aiko awful names behind her back. I couldn’t ignore it and do nothing!” He can always be honest with her, she understands.

“Oh,  Steve! You gamble with your fortune a bit too much. Maybe try talking next, don’t jump into a fight first thing. Look at this” She says brushing his hair away from his blackening eye. Steve is relieved.

“I did!” He replies indignant.  

“Did you really, now?” Steve’s little white lie crumbles when faced with his mother’s amused skepticism.

 “I’ll try harder not to fight next time?” his voice goes up like it’s a question.

“You are so smart, try to use your brains instead of your fists for once!” She says hugging him to her “What am I going to do with you?” she adds and he knows, as he hugs her back as hard as he can, that she means ‘What am I going to do without you?’ but his mother understands him. If he’s going to go soon anyway, he wants to make it worth something. Anything.

 

One morning there’s a new boy Steve hasn’t seen before. Tall for 12, his dark hair holds a slight curl. The others greet him warmly hollering their welcomes and patting his back as he smiles. He’s not a transplanted weed like Steve is, he’s a native species, someone who belongs. A perfectly shaped piece of the puzzle that’s their school grade, and as they are let out into the playground Steve wonders how long will it take him to pick a fight with him.

‘Not long at all’ Steve thinks as his muscles tense when he realizes the boy he doesn’t know is shouting at him, he’s been for a while and Steve has not heard

“Hey, new kid!” he’s calling out walking closer “want to play with us?” he adds once he has gotten Steve’s attention

“Not him, Buchanan!” One of the others tries to warn him

“Why not?”

“He’s a cripple, he’ll slow us down”

“What do you care? He’ll be on my team”

“Well, if you want to be a loser”

“As if we are going to lose” The boy says. Easy, airy confidence in every word “c’mon!” he says to Steve with a little tilt of his head.

Naturally, they lose. The children on his team are too distracted. They range from alarmed, worrying his condition may be catching, to annoyed because he can’t keep up.

“Can you move any faster, turtle?!” One of them calls out limping in an exaggerated hunchback pose. Steve can think of 10 things he wants to say as a retort but he’s already channeling all his concentration, not to mention his breath, into the impossible and dangerous task at hand: running “Shut it, Rob!” Steve thinks he hears from somewhere, but his hearing is not that good and he can’t be sure.

What he can hear is his blood throbbing in his ears. His lungs and his heart, as ever, tell him to slow down or they will make him. He, as ever, doesn’t care to listen, so his organs take it on themselves to make everyone else aware of his troubles. An ugly wet wheeze as he runs, his skin clammy with the effort turns an unsettling grey, giving him a dead fish complexion. None of this helps his popularity or promotes team effort.

So they lose and the children disperse. The winners gloating, the losers hurrying away from him, the infection point of what they think of as obscure, probably deforming diseases, but even worse, guarantied playground mockery. All of them, except the boy with the dark hair

“I’m James, by the way” The boy tells him with a smile, reaching out to shake his hand

“Steve” It’s all he can manage, and it’s only half being short of breath, half stunned surprise. His hand feels embarrassingly hot and wet against the other boy’s cool handshake  

“That was a good game” The boy keeps saying as they walk very slowly down the street, he matches his steps like he doesn’t even notice it may take them a year before they make it  to the apartment buildings only three blocks away, if Steve doesn’t faint first.

“It was--  the worse--” Steve answers still short of breath and James laughs

“Not our tactical best, I agree, but we can improve on it and it was fun!”

Steve agrees with a nod, smiling so wide he can feel every single muscle on his face stretching

“Can I ask you something?” James says

“Sure…” Steve tries to sound confident but he tenses as if bracing for something painful

“Does your back hurt?” James asks simply.

Steve takes a second before replying, all he sees in the other boy’s eyes is curiosity. Not the bad kind, he doesn’t look at him like he should be in the circus or like he’s a dead jellyfish, a disgusting ball of mucus that still must be prodded with a stick, this boy just wants to know. Steve is sure he’s looking back at him the same way, he has a few questions of his own like “Are you real?” but he doesn’t ask them.

Instead he shakes his head “Not really--” Not having an asthma attack by this point is miraculous. Steve would wonder if he’s in a dream if his sentences weren’t coming out all shredded up, when all he wants right now is to be able to talk before this boy can realize his mistake and walk away.

But James doesn’t go anywhere; most people get exasperated when he’s like this, finish his thoughts for him with unsolicited pieces of their own or merely stop listening to him. Steve doesn’t know which one he dislikes most, but James only looks at him quietly like he has all the time in the world “it only makes--” another raspy pause that takes forever “running-- awkward--” he hurries the words out while he can

James gives him a short nod of understanding and they walk in silence until they reach Steve’s apartment building and is time to say goodbye

“Do you want to play again tomorrow?” James asks

“You sure?”

“Of course!” James bumps his shoulder against his and Steve couldn’t be happier he didn’t die in that last fight.

The other children don’t share the sentiment but it doesn’t matter because James is good on his word. They play ball or a slow motion version of it because that’s what Steve can manage. When they play catch Steve’s throw is clumsy but not half bad, he’s especially pleased when he finds out baseball is James’ favorite sport, and they sit on the swings for which Steve doesn’t care for and James pretends to love because it’s an excuse to sit down, an easy way to let an overworked heart rest.

Steve is too much of a pariah to be accepted into the hive mind, and James is too much of a crown prince to be exiled, you don’t throw a silver dollar away just because of a scratch. The two of them are effortlessly suspended in a space that’s completely new, and absolutely their own. That was probably the moment their soul started to meld together, a stardust alloy.

There are 3 other Jameses in their grade and this is why the other children call him Buchanan “At least I dodged Jamie or Jimmy…” A startled terrified pause “or Jim” he says, making a face as if those names taste like raw liver.

Buchanan is a 3 syllable word and this puts a strain on Steve’s breath budget when his lungs feel shriveled, but he spends it all because his James and not one of the others is the one that turns to look at him. One day “Buck” is all he manages, the rest of his friend’s name stays stuck in his throat. He needs to take a second breath, try again, but before he does James turns to him with the brightest smile he’s seen yet.  Bucky it is, then.

Winifred Barnes is lively and sweet with the glamorous, poised air of a film starlet, and you can already tell Bucky will take after her once he has molted out of his cygnet fluff, they are improbable stars in the pile of squalor that’s the 30’s.

George Barnes is a silent, heavy presence reading gloomy newspapers in the Barnes’ living room. He’s watched by his family with the apprehension with which you’d look at a forest fire or a volcano that’s due to erupt soon but hasn’t done so in a long time, distant but threatening. “How about going to Steve’s today, uh? Your father needs to rest” Winifred Barnes says often as she scoots them softly out of the way.

Both, Winifred and Bucky are warned about the crystal clear lake Steve could fall into at any moment. Steve’s mother explains everything to them. The frantic gasps, the desperate way in which Steve’s body may twist and bend, or his eyes roll back as he fights for air if it’s a bad attack. How, if it’s the end, there’s absolutely nothing they can do for him but hold his hand.

More than anything, what Sarah is asking of their new friends is not to let her son die alone. Steve had never thought of the ugliness of it, he doesn’t want Bucky to see it, but he does.

The first big attack he has in front of Bucky is unexpected and sudden. There is no reason for it except maybe that his lungs were luring him into a false sense of security. They had just been playing in the swings, It was like they both were flying together, but as soon as his feet touched the ground his lungs contracted “Buc-k…” is the last thing he says before all the air is sucked out of him as he collapses in the dirt “Don’t worry, I’m not leaving you” Bucky tells him holding his hand, but Steve hears it like he’s already underwater.

Someone must’ve warned his mother because she comes running soon after. He’s sticky with sweat and his breath comes in and out in an unpleasant, raspy, rotten-pipe wheeze, but he’s not dying anymore and his mother can help him up. “Thank you, James” she says touching Bucky’s head, he looks pale and scared and the clearest of Steve’s foggy thoughts is that he will fight whoever is responsible for that. His arms and face are smudged with mud, and his hands are clammy and shaky and cold, but Bucky hasn’t let go and Steve uses all the strength he’s got left to squeeze his best friend’s hand back.  

 

“Excuse me?” Steve opens his eyes with a start. “I’m afraid this is the end of the line, dear” The older lady sitting next to him is touching his arm politely and a computerized voice is informing him all the passengers must leave the car.

Steve walks out of the subway and recognizes nothing, which is not really surprising under his circumstances. He’s lost and wishes going back was as simple as taking a return train.

 

***

**[1:00 PM]**

He walks aimlessly for a few minutes before his fingers are itching to draw, that has always helped him work things out. He asks for a table at a cafe, ordering only black coffee to be safe, and starts his sketch. The subject is obvious, he may not know where he is but he can see the Stark Tower from where he’s sitting. There really is no escape from the ugly thing; it watches you everywhere you go. In a way it reminds him of a lighthouse. You aren’t supposed to go towards a lighthouse, they are meant to be a warning, telling you to keep your distance to prevent loss and death.

“ _Out on a date? ;)”_ His phone lights up with Natasha’s text, her winky faces are only black dots on the phone screen but somehow they always feel wolfish.

“Maybe” he writes back.

She asks that question often and he doesn’t tell her he already tried dating a few times. Only a few months after waking up, entirely too soon, but years of launching himself into danger willfully ignoring the blaring alarms inside him telling him how broken he actually is has done nothing for his sense of self preservation. So, he went to a few clubs, kissed a few men.

He was too curious not to, he wanted to see this new world where he could kiss a man without it being a criminal offence, or an abomination, at least not in the immediate fire and sulfur retaliation way his contemporaries had to suffer. Not that he knew from experience, he had never tried before. So he does now, trying to see what could have been. Trying not to think “If only” too much.

He may give up trying to kiss women entirely. Back in the war Lorraine had kissed him and he had been surprised but underwhelmed. A beautiful girl had finally kissed him and all he felt afterwards was oddly annoyed. Peggy had kissed him and he was grateful for the token of good luck but it only felt like a kind gesture from a friend, as if she had gone with him to a dance because he couldn’t get a date and going alone was too embarrassing. He was fine with Peggy being the last girl he ever kissed, his best girl.  

He never did care for dancing, and now it’s even worse than it was in the 30’s.  Back then he could trick himself into thinking he understood the theory of it even if in practice he left a lot to be desired.

“This is not too hard after all” Steve had said once, surprised the way in which his crooked spine tilted his shoulders didn’t make him as awkward as he had expected

“That’s because you are letting me lead you, you should be leading me” Bucky says, laughter in his voice “Mrs. Rogers, please tell Steve to behave and actually pay attention to my dancing class”

“I have spent 17 years trying to make him listen, James, if you find the secret do let me know” Sarah Rogers says amused but not looking up from her books. Always studying, trying to help her patients, trying to help her son reach the sage old age of 20.

“You are taller than me, it works”

“I’m afraid, being realistic here, any girl you want to invite to dance will be taller than you, taking their heels into account, of course” Bucky smiles down at him “so I’m afraid your excuse is not good enough Rogers, how can I take you anywhere if you don’t know how to dance? My best friend isn’t going to be a wallflower!”

“Aren’t there rules? Taller one leads, isn’t that a rule?” Steve says looking at the floor trying to follow the pattern of Bucky’s feet or at least not to step on him

“What is that? Did I hear Steve Grant Rogers actually ask what the rules are?”

“Don’t be a Jerk, or you’ll get a sock in the kisser” Steve pushes him playfully but Bucky only transforms it into a twirl “I reckon, but only after a second dance” Bucky says taking the lead again as he sings the words of the song. _‘Just hold me tight and tell me you'll miss me’_ he sings badly and exaggerating the words as the record plays in a phonograph he had found and fixed himself and then had left with Steve for safe keeping. Steve laughs and he can hardly follow the dance steps but manages to step on Bucky only twice.

His mother looks fondly at them following the rhythm of the music with her foot, her pleased smile in dissonance with the worried glint in her eyes.

Steve had been too preoccupied proving he wasn’t a stone wrapped round the neck of the harassed, huddled masses to notice what he felt before he lost it, but at least one part of it hadn’t escaped his mother. It was there in all the times she kissed him goodbye saying “Now you take care of James, aye?”

Steve thought it was only his mother’s way of saying he was just as capable of looking after Bucky as Bucky was of looking after him, but maybe there had been a specific threat in his mother’s mind. At the time, even though Steve hadn’t known what from, there was only one answer in his heart. Of course he would always take care of Bucky. Of course he would protect him no matter the price.

Bucky was a fixture in his house, spending more time with them than with his own parents. Every time Steve came down with one of his nasty colds, Bucky would be next to him when he woke up. Worried and ruffled or exhausted and relieved, still holding his hand. Steve was always comforted knowing that if he couldn’t come back from the dark at least the last thing he’d see would be Bucky’s rainy-sky eyes. It made him feel safe and prepared to face whatever was waiting for him in the depths of his feverish dreams.

The irony was not lost on him, he had always been ready to die, he was never meant to be the only one left behind.

The night clubs of the 21th century feel almost exactly like those feverish dreams. Disconcerting and absurdly terrifying. The harsh lights and jarring noise make him feel disoriented and apprehensive, like he’s under attack. He has felt misplaced all this time, but never actually old until the moment he tries to blend in with all the other men in the dance floor. He’s stiff and heavy, and wants nothing more than to go out into the cold air, into the quiet.

His dance partner seems to notice. He chuckles, amused but not unkind and invites him to a quieter place. He’s a brunet, playful and charming and Steve is good at reckless, always second nature to him, unlike dancing. So, he says ‘yes’ even though this man’s eyes are brown instead of grey.

It turns out the quieter place means the man’s apartment. They drink white wine and their kisses get messier and urgent. He pushes Steve down into the bed and starts fumbling with his zipper and Steve lets him- but he smells like smoke and liquor and other people’s sweat and there’s a picture of this man’s grandfather in full military uniform in the hall. He could have been in the 107th, right along Bucky and- “I’m sorry, I’m just not… I can’t” Steve apologizes as he breaks the kiss, softly pushing the man’s hands away from his waist.

“That’s OK, we can go slower if you want”

Steve only sighs and shakes his head “I really should go”

His date looks at him for a quiet second before saying “I’m sorry if I’m being too forward but did you just break up?” He offers “You have been looking sad at times, that usually means breakup flashbacks” he adds with a smile, he’s sweet and kind and Steve is sorry he’s ruining his night.

Steve shakes his head, takes a long sip of his drink wishing it helped “We weren’t…” but that’s not what he wants to say “He died, last… January” Steve says counting only a few months back, not even a year, finally voicing what nobody else seems to realize.  

For everyone else Bucky is only a black and white picture in a museum, an old jacket that can’t be an original because Bucky died wearing his, a few silent seconds of film. Documentaries where really old men, -translucent, paper thin skin, shaking hands and fogged eyes- reminiscence about their school days with Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, most of those stories are wild stretches of the truth but he isn’t about to contradict extremely senior citizens. In contrast, Steve’s nightmares are still fresh and very much alive, replaying the fall almost every night in excruciating and supplementary detail.

He doesn’t only replay Bucky’s scream, or the mask of startled horror that twisted his face, he also hears the sound of his bones as they are crushed by the ground, how his eyes must have burst, and his heart shattered as he realized Steve was not coming after him. It’s a deafening sound and he always wakes up with his ears ringing, the guilt making him breathless, it compresses his ribcage as it tells him what he already knows; he should have jumped after Bucky no matter what. Outside everything has changed but for him everything feels exactly as it did before he went into the water. It’s not an old wound that itches sometimes; it’s a fresh one that still stains all red as soon as he’s a bit careless.

This man that could be his grandson offers his condolences and another glass of wine. They drink and talk but don’t kiss or touch again until they shake hands and Steve walks away.

Now, he replies “Maybe” to Natasha’s text and asks his waitress for directions to the museum.

Maybe he’ll be ready at some point, but he can’t go around leaving the blood of his wounds smeared in other people’s hands. Promising to give them something that as far as he knows, is resting somewhere in the snow, in a cage made with Bucky’s bones.

 

***

**[4:00 PM]**

The museum feels exactly like a graveyard, the ashes of his life scattered all around. He visits often.

Bucky’s bio is always his first stop, there are so many details that are not accurate but he doesn’t mind guarding those pieces of Bucky no one else has until he can return them to him.

“The 30’s before the war” reads the little card at the start of the exhibition. Little models, like doll houses, inaccurate and romanticized replicas of their apartments in the 30’s before they all went to war. There’s one for every Howlie, one for Peggy and even Howard, and at the very end there it is “Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes’ Brooklyn 1939”

The exhibition shows a model of their apartment, much bigger than it was and tells nothing of how it was drafty and always smelt like a mixture of onions, mold and the cheap paint Steve used in the signs he designed and painted for small shops and cafes. Not very profitable since most business were going bankrupt, but a few times he had been looked up to be hired, and Bucky got him a few ships in need of good calligraphy at the docks.

It didn’t say anything about how they shared the small, dirty outside bathroom with other 4 people. How, when his corroded stomach kept him retching there for embarrassing amounts of time, Bucky stood loyally outside the door trying to appease their neighbors.

“Use a beer bottle, is not that difficult. I will gladly provide it if you don’t have any” Bucky’s voice carries to Steve through the closed bathroom door

“It’s the third time this week, Barnes”

“I assure you, we like it even less than you do”

An exasperated sigh, and then after a pause “It’s nothing catching, is it?” in a whisper that was probably meant only for Bucky to hear

“No, sir!”

“Fine, but I’m taking you on your offer. Three beer bottles. Unopened ones.”

“You got them!” Steve can hear retreating steps, then Bucky knocking softly at the door

 “You holding up?”

“I’m sorry, Buck” Steve is angry at his stomach for corroding in sores for no reason, at himself because he can’t stop heaving and at his voice for sounding faint and weak, but it’s not as bad if it’s only Bucky hearing it

“Sorry for what? You are the one who has to be cooped up in there” Bucky says lightly

“Not this again, Barnes” The cycle starting all over again

“Mr. Jerome, what a pleasure to find you in this, the third floor corridor”

“The pleasure is not mine, Barnes” the newcomer starts but it’s interrupted by Steve retching again, his stomach determined to get rid of everything, the last of its contents making a loud soggy splash “Is he dying in there? Are you dying in there, Rogers?” his neighbor says pounding at the door

“I’m not dead yet!” Steve shouts proudly, he’s not going down like this

“Bad seeds never do die, Rogers. He’s going to survive us all, Barnes” his words brisk but kind 

“I hope so”

“You win. I’ll be back in 15 minutes, crap can always wait. Remember that, Barnes. Crap can always wait”

“How will I ever be able to forget it” And Steve can picture Bucky’s charming crooked smile as he says that

 

The little diorama at the museum shows nothing of that, it even has two small beds, a kitchen table, a little radio, things they never had. After his mother’s passing Steve had sold what people would take, what was left was the dirty couch where Bucky slept and Steve drew balancing his sketchbook on his legs because they didn’t have a table. Steve’s scraggly, old mattress, a wardrobe with no doors and a wobbly leg and a bookshelf they made out of beer crates and Steve painted ocean waves on, practice for the mural he wanted to paint in their living room to celebrate when Bucky got his new job. Steve’s sketchbooks slept there next to a few science fiction paperbacks and records Bucky had squirreled away at Steve’s for years, since well before he moved in.

Sometimes they would go to Coney Island and he and Bucky would walk into the sea but only up to Steve’s knees. Fear, just like anxiety is not something he’s really acquainted with, especially when it comes to his own physical integrity, but in those days he came as close as he was capable of to being afraid of water. He knew he didn’t have a chance of beating it if it got him. He would die for absolutely nothing, a positively useless death and the headlines would read ‘ _Local Invalid Drown, Good Riddance’_. He couldn’t risk it. He sat on the beach burying his feet in the warm sand, watching Bucky swim, always graceful and weightless in the water.

Bucky’s family was not as badly-off as most. Bucky could have had better things, a bed that was actually a bed and didn’t feel weirdly damp and dirty all the time, under a roof that actually kept the elements outside. His father had been talking about getting him a job as a clerk at a newspaper for a while, the anticipated ocean-mural celebration job, but Mount George had erupted at last. Casualties: One James Buchanan Barnes.

“Do I have to go fight your dad?” Steve finally asks from where he had been curled up on the couch. He had been designing the ocean he was going to create in their living room, when Bucky had returned from visiting his parents uncharacteristically ruffled and angry

“Don’t bother! he’s too much of a coward to be worth the effort. He’s not even worth the dirt on the soles of your shoes” Bucky says under his breath like he’s talking to himself, pacing the floor of their shabby apartment back and forth and back and forth again, a wounded swan trapped under a net. Steve had never seen him so angry. Usually, righteous fury was Steve’s monopoly.

 “As it happens, fighting cowards is a specialty of mine” Steve offers a tentative, little smile

Bucky stops his pacing and turns to look at him like he had forgotten he was there. After a little pause he says “Don’t I know it” and calming down a little sits on the floor at Steve’s feet, his back against the couch, letting his head rest so close to Steve’s legs he can feel the warmth coming off from him, almost smell the sea breeze in his hair.

“What did he tell you?” Steve asks after a few minutes of silence, when Bucky’s breathing is less agitated, and he stops clenching his jaw

“Only loads of crap. He wants me to move back home for starters, or the job with the newspaper is gone” Bucky shifts, uncomfortable “George is a prick and he’s using you to get angry at me for things he has wanted to get angry about for years. I’m glad you weren’t there to hear his nonsense” Bucky grinds his teeth, and Steve knows than means he is going to keep some pieces of his conversation with George to himself, worrying them between his teeth until he’s ready to let them go.

He usually thinks of his own father as an unknown but benign figure, looking dashing and important in full military uniform in the picture his mother always kept on her dresser and Steve buried with her. But sometimes, seeing Bucky’s relationship with George Barnes, Steve wonders if the reason his mother and him had been able to be as happy and free as they were, was because he hadn’t been around to smother them with his importance.

“Buck, I can manage here. If you want you can move back, get that job-”

“And I already told you, you don’t have to. We are stronger together. If I go back, George will not only disown me for something else soon enough, but what would I do with all that free time if I don’t have to search for your bloody nose in back alleys? Idle hands and all that” Bucky looks up at him with a soft smile

“Jerk!” Steve says, playfully pushing Bucky with his feet

“Stop worrying, Punk” He stands up and ruffles Steve's hair, “I’m off, if I play my cards right I may get us some fish for tomorrow” Bucky continues, gathering his heavier coat, and slipping black gloves over his cracked and calloused hands for his night shift at the docks

“Are you sure you don’t want to be a clerk instead? It’d be nicer... warmer…” The thing Steve wants less in the world is to hold Bucky back

“Yes, It is indeed warmer in hell, but I rather not sell my soul to the devil, thank you” Bucky says, he’s close to the door ready to leave, but for some reason he walks back to where Steve is

“Steve…” Bucky stops before him, his lips slightly parted like he’s going to say something else or, because hindsight is always 20/20, like he’s about to lean down and kiss him, but he shakes his head instead “Nevermind, I still have to work some things out but when I do I’ll tell you right away, alright?”

“Can’t wait!” Steve smiles up at him “I’ll go fetch you in the morning”

“You better!” Bucky says throwing his discarded day coat over Steve, the weight of it over his shoulders is a comforting sea-breeze hug “Keep warm, is getting colder” Bucky says as he leaves

 

**[8:00 PM]**

Leaving the museum Steve decides not to take the subway again. He’ll walk, what is distance or effort to his genetically engineered, fae-trade body? Nothing at all.

In contrast to his home with Bucky his apartment now is nothing short of a mansion, he even has a fridge, the very first thing he got for himself in the future after Sam and Natasha helped him find an apartment he liked.

“Lots of retired folk here, you’ll feel right at home” Natasha jokes, but it’s true. It’s the type of building that attracts older people, those searching for a corner of the world that resembles what they were familiar with when they were young, a quiet place where they can rest, close their eyes and think of old sweethearts. Steve can certainly relate.

The building has a timeless feel to it Steve only recognizes from old Hollywood films. Films his mother loved but were as fantastic to them as the stories about flying saucers, like Clark Gable or Jean Harlow could come out of any of those doors, and that makes it feel only slightly more like something he has known than the modern ones with the touch screens and voice recognition software embedded, he can only guess, in the wall.

It may not resemble Steve’s youth in the slightest, but It doesn’t have automatic doors or keycard locks, no disembodied voices asking you how your day was while you are undressing to take a shower, or if you want tea at exactly 200 degrees Fahrenheit, only to get a slight judgmental tone when you answer you’d like to have instant coffee instead. Here the elevator complains with a metallic screech as the door closes, you can hear the water pipes gurgling behind the walls, and you open your door with an honest to God key. That’s enough for Steve.

He buys the fridge. He and his mother knew they existed like they knew polar bears existed. He was sure he had gasped that first time Bucky had invited him to his house and there it was, right in their kitchen, a polar bear cold on the inside.

The fridge he buys now is white and squat and the man who sells it to him calls it vintage. It’s exactly the model he and Bucky would have gotten in the 40’s if they had been able to afford it. It’s noisy and slightly unreliable, and it’s a stupid thing to form an attachment to, but it makes Steve feel like maybe not everything he’s known is completely gone. Tony can’t look at it without laughing, Natasha calls him ‘pops’ for weeks, and Sam nods at him saying “I see what your style is about”.

Despite their teasing, Natasha and Sam take the fridge purchase as a cue and start scouting 40’s furniture for him, bookcases, tables, a bedroom set, and because Sam insists “a speaker system with built-in iPhone docks, it still looks like a phonograph, for your comfort”

“I do know what most of those words mean individually” Steve says with half a laugh, his arms crossed as Sam shows him how to use his new sound system

“Look, I’ll show you, this is a magic rectangle” Sam says pushing an iphone towards him with a flourish

“I know what an iphone is”

Sam answers with a skeptical look “If you say so. It’s only a hand-me-down so don’t be alarmed, all your 30’s and 40’s hits are in there, all of them. Some essentials from my collection, we will talk about those later, and I will probably regret it but I even put some Johnny Cash in there”

“Just what we need, him sitting in the dark listening to ‘ _I walk the line_ ’ on repeat” Natasha says with a smirk materializing 3 beer bottles out from somewhere in the mess of boxes and bubble wrap.

All of it is much finer than anything Steve had actually owned, most of it is catastrophically expensive. The memory of poverty makes him odd with money, reluctant to spend even on things he needs. Sam and Natasha have to talk him into buying more than the strict essentials “You do Need more than two pairs of pants and one pair of boots” Natasha rebukes him and gets them for him since he won’t.

His friends arrive with bags full of shirts, socks, jackets, pants and even underwear, everything almost identical, most of it in shades of blue “So you can have the illusion of wearing the same clothes every day” Natasha says with her wolfish grin, “the palette is not my doing though”

“ I know you like your pasty beiges and muddy browns but the blue will bring out the icicles in your azures” Sam says as he flips through a sports magazine sitting on an immaculate, modern replica of a 1942 couch that smells like the floor polish of furniture stores.

That’s the apartment he comes to. It almost feels like a home when Nat and Sam are in it. Nat, almost as much of an outsider as he is, Sam taking them under his wing being the kind of person who can make a sturdy home out of bits and scraps. But when he’s alone there’s always an empty echo he tries to drown by playing those old songs he used to laugh at and never learned how to dance to.

On those last days, they were never alone. Captain America was pulled in all directions, and he and Bucky didn’t have many opportunities to talk like they were used to, but they could read the other’s moods and shifts as easily as their own. Always seamlessly coordinated, they souls freely whirling around one another; if anything, they were even more attuned since for the first time Steve could match Bucky’s movements one by one instead of collapsing to the ground.

“Miss Carter is a looker” Bucky teased him once as they walked back to camp.

Everything is so silent all they can hear is the snow crunching under their boots, snowflakes softly floating around them refusing to fall, as if someone has just shaken a snow globe.

“She is very beautiful” Steve agrees and Bucky can’t contain a chuckle; a sound that always lifts the weight of the war off Steve’s back and was less and less frequent as shadows got darker around Bucky. His friend looked haunted, his usual airiness weighted down with lead; where before there had been a charming shake of his head and a jaunty smile, now it was a downwards glance and the clenching of his jaw as he reeled himself in.

“What is it?” Steve asks, soaking in Bucky’s warmth like a golden retriever happily laying in the sun

“I’m sorry, I only thought, even by _Steve Rogers’ Practical Dancing Guide_ you’ll have to lead, you know, taller one does. You can’t escape from it now”

“Save me the embarrassment and teach me again?”

“Sure thing! Next time we are on leave. I wouldn’t desert my worst and only student”

“Hey! Now you’ll be able to torture me for more than 20 minutes at a time so I may learn something” Steve says, his breath coming out of him easily in unburdened white clouds

 “Is it everything you imagined?” Bucky asks bumping his shoulder against his

Steve doesn’t have to think his answer. Getting used to his new body wasn’t difficult. He had loved it instantly, how could he not? But getting used to the new way he was reflected off of people’s eyes hadn’t been as easy. Women giggled as he walked by instead of looking at him with pity, and men wanted to shake his hand instead of telling him creatures like him were the cause of the great depression. Bucky was the one person that didn’t look at him any differently; he could still recognize himself in his friend’s eyes

“It’s better, better than anything I dreamed about. I even get a bit lightheaded because of all the extra oxygen” He says because he wants to make Bucky laugh and he does. It feels inadequate being so completely happy about something he got because of the war. He’s a weapon, he’s fully aware of that, but it helped him save Bucky and he isn’t capable of feeling even one speck of guilt after that.

 “That’ll be your excuse now? I only wish they’d given you steel skin as well, seeing how you go about jumping on grenades”

“Oh. You heard about that?”

“I heard about that” Bucky says with a little smile before he looks down as they keep walking “They were telling the story like it was amusing, of course the invincible Captain Rogers would do that, but I couldn’t laugh. If I had heard you had died like that… Well, I wouldn’t have been surprised, I would have been proud _and_ really mad at you, because of course that’s what you’d do after I told you not to do anything stupid, go out and find the most stupid dangerous thing, but-“

Bucky trails off and they walk in silence for a few minutes. Steve waited, this silence was just like all the times Bucky had waited for him to gather his breath, so now Steve returned the favor waiting quietly for Bucky to gather his thoughts.

“Steve-”

“Captain Rogers!-“ Their heads snap up instinctively towards the sound of Morita’s voice, shattering their snow globe and reminding them their nerves are always raw and alert in this place.

Steve steps towards Bucky instead of calling out for Morita, looking deeply into his grey eyes, hoping Bucky understands he only has to say one word and he’ll stay to listen to him, no matter what they need the Captain for.

“Don’t worry, I won’t forget what I want to tell you” Bucky says with one of his old playful smiles, the shadows lifting slightly “Go save the world”

Steve had given him a quick smile and a nod "Morita! Over here!", and not even 24 hours after Bucky was gone.

He tries not to dwell on it, unsuccessfully. He can’t help but to make a thousand versions of what Bucky had wanted to say. Something deep at the core of him aches at the absence of it, at how much he had wanted to help Bucky work the lead and the shadows out of his feathers.

Steve checks his watch as he sets the alarm for his morning run, 10:04 PM.

He will get up tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that, an infinite chain of days until he can’t get back on his feet anymore. He’ll let Captain America save the world, while Steve Rogers dreams of ghosts slumbering in the snow.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> If you are curious the song they dance to is "Dream a Little Dream of Me"


End file.
